


At your service

by Justasmalltownfangirl



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Diary/Journal, Friendship/Love, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romantic Friendship, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justasmalltownfangirl/pseuds/Justasmalltownfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas' wartime diary in an AU where a certain Corporal Kent serves with him.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Putting words on everything, making them into sentences... I don't know, it feels a bit better. I look at it and they are just words on a paper, something written with a pen. Just words on a paper, not real.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 2, 1916

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was something I just started playing with after finding it on tumblr (I obviously didn't come up with something this creative by myself) and the chapters will be rather short to stick with the diary format, but, yeah... I appreciate all support I get, I hope there's someone out there that will enjoy this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have witnessed more men dying than God himself."

I'll just come right out and say it; diaries are not my thing. Yes, I do think they are ridicilous. Yes, I very much dislike them. And yes, I am aware of how incredibly silly I look right now, scribbling down pointless words no one will ever read in a rugged old book no one but me will ever own, especially when I have so much more important things to do. Because there are things I am supposed to do, that I should be doing right now. Instead I am doing this, even though diaries are not my thing. Diaries are for children, female children, little girls. I am a man, a man in my twenties. I have had employment and cared for myself for several years. I have had medical training. I am a soldier even. I am a full grown man, in the middle of a war, sitting in the trenches, writing a diary. I will tell the others I am writing letters. But I will know that it is a diary, and I will resent myself for it.

I don't even know why, really. I suppose I needed to get it out. There is no one here I dare talk to, especially not about things such as these. I cannot afford to seem a fool or a coward in their eyes, not without knowing any of them. But I have so many feelings, so many thoughts, I just need to put them into words. You know? You probably don't. You are a book. A _diary_. Christ.

I just feel as if I need to express everything, I need to get it out of my head in some way. And if I can't tell any of the others here, then how else? I could write to O'Brien. But she wouldn't understand at all, she is not here. She has not seen all this. She doesn't know how it feels. She would have to think something about it, she would either think me a coward or she would pity me. I can't have that, especially not if she decides to write something back and says the wrong thing. No one that has not been here can understand how it is. Though I suppose you can't even if you are here, because you are still a book. A diary. My diary, corporal Thomas Barrow's diary.

It feels good though, it actually does. I was not completely certain it would work. But putting words on everything, making them into sentences... I don't know, it feels a bit better. I look at it and they are just words on a paper, something written with a pen. Just words on a paper, not real. Not what I am going through right now, not what I have seen and done. It doesn't feel as real, when I read back on it. Anyone could have written that, it could be someone I don't know. Who lived a hundred years ago and fought in a war I should have learned about in school but probably didn't because it was quite honestly incredibly boring. When I read it it isn't my life anymore, not my reality. Just words on a paper. It's nice, even though it's a lie.

Because it isn't a sergeant somebody from somewhere, fighting in the war about something. It's me, right here, right now. With my _stupid_ diary and this godawful pen, and terrible lightning and a strange smell coming from somewhere. God, what is that smell? Where does it even come from? I have looked for its source for days without finding a thing.

But I wasn't supposed to be writing about smells, was I? It's just difficult, even when it feels good. Because it means I have to remember everything and think back to it, while I prefer to not think about anything at all and pretend none of it has ever happened. Alright. I promised myself I would try this. I am going to write, and not about the smell.

 

I saw some new recruits arriving today. They are so young. They look like children, hell; they _are_ children. Straight from school to training, straight from training to the trenches. And whatever awaits them here. They are children. They probably clung around their mothers' skirts the day before they were drafted, or sat in their fathers' laps the night before they enlisted. _Goodbye Johnny, have a nice time getting your head blown off._ They are standing in their doors, waving them goodbye. She has just stopped breastfeeding little Johnny, and now he is off to war and he promises to write. How proud they are, how proud he is. So young, so very _young._

I am not young. I am old. There was no one to wave me off, no one who told me I would be in trouble if I didn't write. I was old back when I left, and I am even older now. I have been here for over a year, I have seen things I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy to see. (But I suppose I don't have to, do I? Bates has been in a war too. Oh, wonderful thought, imagine that!) I have witnessed more men dying than God himself. I haven't been able to count all the bullets that have gone right past my head. I have been living with the same strange smell for days. I am old now.

I was smoking by the hospital and they jumped out their trucks, maybe 20-30 of them. All smiles and blushing cheeks, big, expectant, shiny eyes. They were singing. They think they are ready for this, they think they are going to win us the war, they think all they will have to do is kill some Germans.

They have not seen the Germans yet, they have not yet stared them in the eyes and seen that they are just like us. They have not yet seen one bleed the same blood we do, they have not yet heard them call for their parents in their dying moments. They have not yet searched through their pockets and found pictures of their sweethearts, lovely girls that they have kissed and held hands with and that are home right now waiting for them to come back. Lovely girls that will cry when they get the letters, because they are not coming back.

All those young boys, smiling and singing, laughing. How long will that last? Not long. Henson wanted to bet, I wasn't up for it. I didn't have anything I wanted to risk; I was smoking one of my last cigarettes when they arrived. I should be saving them, but the only thing that can really make me forget for a while is nicotine. I would trade my food for cigarettes at this point. I'll smoke them all. Just get them here, I'll smoke them. Look at that, look at Thomas Barrow smoking all of England's cigarettes in a day. I could be a show. I suppose the guys would enjoy entertainment. I'm smoking right now. Just trying to replace that strange smell with some smoke.

One of the new recruits was rather handsome. Short and all, but with a nice face and blond curls. Of course I don't allow myself to think that way anymore, it is too risky. I have heard all sorts of stories, I know what's at stake, I can't let anyone know.

But what I wish someone knew was where this bloody stench is coming from. I won't be able to sleep tonight, I swear. I can't even concentrate on the writing in this dumb diary, because all I can think about is _that._ Not even the cigarette smoke can get it away. It wasn't even an unpleasant smell at first, but it just never stops. I am _sick_ of it. I will throw up, honestly.

See, that is where these new recruits could make some actual use. They won't do any good in the trenches, they will all be dead before they get any Germans. But if they could just spare a few hours and search through this room, that would make some actual good. I could finally get away from this stench. So it would be good for only me, because no one else seems to notice it. But either way, it would be good for _someone_ and no one would die. (But that all depends on what the source actually is, I suppose). Do I not deserve that? Just a few soldiers searching for a few hours and then I would be free? It wouldn't be that much trouble.

I just thought I heard something. I was wrong, there is nothing. Everyone is asleep. I don't want to sleep yet, because I don't want tomorrow to ever come. But it has to come, and I'm so tired. I can barely keep my eyes open anymore and my handwriting is getting more sloppy. But what does it matter, no one is ever going to read this.

I will get some sleep, try to at least. Just another quick search for the smell first. Goodnight diary. Am I supposed to say that? God, I don't know. Why would I think you would answer? You are still a book. And _where the bloody hell does this smell come from?!_

 


	2. May 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I started walking the wrong direction, looking for the probably dead father of a man I had never met. If only you knew me, you would know that it's not at all like me to do something like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is posted now only because I think you might need another one to get into the story, there doesn't seem to be much interest yet but I'll wait and see.  
> The other chapters will come further apart though, for sure.

It's routine that me and Henson and all the other medics leave the trenches and go out on the no man's land between us and the Germans after we have been under attack or attacked them, as soon as the fire has died down and it can be moderatively safe for us out there. We are supposed to look for wounded, but we tend to sneak around and do our best to avoid getting shot instead. They are hard to find, in the smoke and the fog, and when they are unconscious there is no way of telling them apart from the dead. We cannot stay and check everyone's pulses, and we are not allowed to either. If they are unconscious or too badly hurt to be able to scream for us or reply when we shout, then there is no way of saving them anyway.

Today was no different than any other day, and that was exactly what we were supposed to do. I have done it loads and as you can see I am still alive and well, but my heart still beats faster and it's just as difficult to breathe as it was the first time.

We found no one. We stepped over dead bodies, German and British, young and old. Some look peaceful, some faces are twisted in horror and pain. One was breathing. There were several around that place, but both me and Henson could hear it and we stood quietly to try to locate where it came from. He already had his hand on his gun, ready to pull the pull the trigger and put some poor sod out of his misery. I certainly was not going to do it, that always falls on him.

Suddenly they started shooting again and we were under fire. I ran, I just ran. I had no idea which direction I was goingor what I was doing, I just ran the fastest I could to find cover. I lost Henson almost immediately, he ran too. Somehow I held on to the stretcher and dragged it behind me as I ran, it was slowing me down but I could not bring myself to let it go. What was I planning to do with it? Carry myself on it? I don't know, I was just running.

A grenade exploded right beside me, and I flung myself the other way, still with the stretcher in hand. Grenades are loud, I should mention that. That was what made me do it, not because I was scared of getting hit. I couldn't think that far, not right then. I just wanted away from the noise.

I rolled onto my side and into a hold just deep enough that if I lied on my back I was completely hidden. The bullets were still whining past over me, I still had one hand on the stretcher.

I heard something beside me and turned my head without lifting it. A bloke was lying right there beside me, one from my side. I can tell new recruits from old by how their uniform fits. They are usually too big because the boys are so small that there aren't any their size, but sometimes they are too big. That is a problem easier solved, because they will certainly lose that extra weight.

This was the new recruit I had seen a few days ago. The short handsome one, with the blond curls. His uniform was a bit loose. He was breathing loudly with his mouth open and staring at me with his beautiful brown eyes open in terror.

I shouted and asked him if he was hurt, trying to make myself heard over all the bullets and grenades. He shook his head and I was relieved, he was too young.

We stared at each other like that for a while, and neither of us were speaking. I was starting to breathe a little slower and calmer, the more convinced I got that they were not coming for us, that they were just firing, and they couldn't hit us so all we had to do was lie there and wait for it to be over. I would have lied in that mud for hours, make no mistake. I haven't been clean for months anyway, and I was not going to die. He was just as terrified the whole time.

It quieted down slowly, and when it had been completely silent for ten minutes I exhaled in relief and got up on my knees.

”Up you go”, I said.

The soldier stood up straight at once, as if he had forgotten about the bullets that would have went right through him if he had stood there 15 minutes earlier. He adjusted his hat, and I stood up next to him, still without letting go off the stretcher.

”We need to get back”, I said. ”Do you know which way?”

I had no clue, and I was not very keen on jumping in the trenches on the wrong side. But he nodded and pointed behind me.

”Good”, I said. ”Let's go before they start again.”

I knew I needed to take control of the situation, because he was still in shock, had not spoken a word and made no attempt of moving.

But then he shook his head again.

”Me da's still out there”, he said, loud and clear, as if he was not still shaking.

I don't know why, really. Maybe because I still had the stretcher and had not used it yet. But there was no way I was going back, and I knew it. So I told him off, and at first he protested, but then he turned around without saying a word and ran for it.

And me? I started walking the wrong direction, looking for the probably dead father of a man I had never met. If only you knew me, you would know that it's not at all like me to do something like that.

Sometimes I crawled, sometimes I crouched, sometimes I could do nothing but stand up and walk normally. I held the stretcher out in front of me, hoping they would see it and know that I was a medic and not coming to attack. I walked carefully and watched my step, I could hardly breathe and my heart was beating fast. Strangely enough though, it didn't feel real. It felt strange, as if I was in a dream. I came across some barbed wire, and knew it meant I was too close to their side. Somehow, before I had even thought it, I had made my way over it with my stretcher.

I whispered ”hello” continously, too close to feel comfortable shouting. Turns out I am incredibly soppy and very stupid. I was an easy target but I could not turn around. I cursed myself under my breath.

Then someone replied. A strong and clear voice, a loud ”hello!”. I replied, he replied, I replied again, he replied back. I followed the sound, he was lying right out in the open on his back.

”Where's my boy?” he asked.

I was relieved, relieved that it was the right man, relieved that he could speak that way, which meant he couldn't be too badly hurt.

I told him his son had returned to our side as I got down on my knees and checked him through. He tried to talk but I interrupted him and told him to be quiet. His only wound was in his leg, he had been shot. He was fine then, if unable to walk. I thanked my lucky star, if I have one, that is.

He looked a lot like his son, only a bit over 20 years older. I bandaged his wound to stop the bleeding, he winced. I asked him if it hurt and he replied ”like hell”. That was good. It's when it doesn't hurt, when the pain is too big for us to comprehend that it's dangerous, that we are dying.

He could drag himself onto the stretcher and held on to it tightly as I dragged it after me when I crouched and made my way back to where I hoped I would find the trenches. I stood a few seconds by the barbed wire to figure out a way for us to get across, and eventually lifted it up with my hands and he crawled under it. The barbs pierced my skin at multiple places and I started bleeding immensely. When he was on the other side I dropped it to the ground and stepped over it without looking at my hands. They were hurting and I knew they looked bad.

For the last bit the soldier started mumbling to himself, and several times he lost his grip and slid off the stretcher so I had to pull him back on. He was looking rather pale at this point and I started to worry a bit. I thought about the soldier with the blond curls, and how he would look if he was ever told that his father was dead. Then I kept dragging the stretcher behind me, walked slower and prayed that we would not be attacked. I did not want to die for that man I had never met, selfish as it sounds. If the fire started again I would drop him and run, no matter how hard it would be, I promised myself that.

He became quiet. I jumped down in our trenches and pulled him down with me, he landed with a thud but without regaining the consciousness he had lost a while earlier. Someone helped me get him to the doctors. I tried to look for the soldier with the blond curls, without any luck.

I put some bandage around my hands. They look bad, but not as bad as I thought they would. They still hurt, but I can obviously write. You can't get sent home for some scratches on your hands. If you could I would have lifted up barbed wire months ago.

It's dark now, so it's too late. I will have to go see that soldier tomorrow and see if he survived. He is only in his mid 40's and has a son, but I don't think he will be alive by morning if he still is.

Henson made it back alright. I decided against smoking tonight, I have to at least try to make them last a bit longer. So instead I will continue my nightly ritual of snooping through all the others' stuff and see who the dirty pig is who have something smelly stacked away somewhere. Whoever it is might accidentally be shot by friendly fire.

I will keep you posted, diary.

 


	3. May 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His name is James, but he has told me to call him Jimmy."

It was just a flesh wound. His name is Kent and he is a Sergeant. He is completely fine and very grateful. He is still unable to walk, but will in a while be sent home to recover before he can come back. Because he will come back, he will be able to walk shortly, probably without even limping. The bullet missed everything important, but he still would have bled out if he had been left out there.

I have a strange feeling of accomplishment. I feel good, I feel important. The others have smiled at me and patted me on the back with approving nods. I am not used to being treated this way by other men, it feels great. I am a bit of a hero now, at least in my own mind. Everyone thinks I was very brave, to go running off alone like that to save someone's life. I have not told them how terrified I was, or how when I was not it was only because it was not real.

I talked a bit with sergeant Kent. He is quite nice. He told me how very grateful he is, how happy he is and how he will forever be in my gratitude because I saved his life. I thanked him and told him that I was just doing my job. I did not tell him that I find his son very handsome.

He actually came in as we were talking. He had washed up and his face had regained some colour, and he was even more handsome than he had been all pale, shocked and muddy yesterday. He shook my hand frantically and kept thanking me.

”Thank, thank you so much, _thank you_ ”, he repeated.

His name is James, but he has told me to call him Jimmy. He was holding my hand with his left one so I was unable to pull away. It felt good there, I am not going to deny it. His voice is very nice as well. Yesterday I saved him and his father. I am a hero and I deserve to look at him in an inappropiate way and to enjoy holding his hand more than I should. It's not like I say it out loud. I only tell you, but you are still a book.

Today has been a calm day. I have been helping out in the field hospital, though there is not much to do for the ones in there. They are either going to die, or they will recover on their own. We have very little medicine and I am not the one that performs the surgeries, obviously. I can hand out water to those who can drink it, but that's about it.

One bloke has been asleep since yesterday. He is still breathing but not for long. I washed his forehead with the cleanest cloth I could find, he is extremely hot and sweats all the time. He hasn't even been wounded in battle, he is just sick. I wonder if he has family. He looks old enough to have children, but not old enough to die.

I spent all my free time looking for that smell again. There is not that much else to do really, and I cannot stand it anymore. I have spent too much of my life with that smell in my nose, and it's in my head even when I'm not in the room. When I get home I might count all the sentences about the smell here in the diary. They will be many, I am sure. Too much of my life revolves around that smell.

Then I talked to Jimmy. We had dinner together, corned beef and bread. He had some sauce that his mother has made from him. It tasted good, but it was not meant to go with corned beef and bread. I was reluctant to say it at first, even when he insisted that I said what I thought about it.

”It's good”, I said, repeatedly.

I just saved his father's life, but I do not see myself entitled to insult his mother's cooking just yet. But he just kept asking me, even though I stuffed my mouth full and tried to sign to him that I was unable to speak with that much food in my mouth. He just waited until I had swallowed and asked me again, and eventually I managed to get out that it was not exactly a great fit with the corned beef and bread.

He just threw his head back and laughed loudly, and said that he thought the exact same thing. He thought I had been ridicilous to think that I can't tell him the truth about things.

But he doesn't know. There is something I can't tell him, even when it's the truth. I am used to keeping that to myself, but there is still something strange and unsettling about keeping secrets from Jimmy. He asked me if I had a sweetheart, as everyone does out here. I swear, it's all the other blokes ever talk about! I told Jimmy about Daisy, just as I have told everyone else. But of course I always exaggerate. I said that we are courting, but we are really not. We didn't speak much at all during my last time at Downton, after that fight I had with William. I can't see why, he was the one that started it all. I was only defending myself! But I suppose she is mad at me anyway. I did treat her badly, I will admit that.

She is a nice enough girl, there is nothing wrong with her. She's not much to look at, but when you get to know her she grows on you. I bet I could really fancy her, if I was that way. But she isn't really my type now.

Jimmy is more my type. He looks really good, I like his smile and his laugh is just wonderful. But he has a nice personality too, and I feel comfortable around him. As if we have some sort of bond, or something. Some people just are like that with each other, I suppose. I really do like him already, but I know nothing will ever come of it. It's a bummer, really, but I can accept it. I think we can be friends though, I hope it. I am aware that I am not the best at making friends, but I will give it a go this time. After all, what can go wrong?

 


	4. May 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People look strange when they're dead."

Another day spent in the field hospital. There were eight surgeries and ten deaths. People look strange when they're dead. No one ever talks about that, but it's true. They're all pale, cold and stiff, and they're like mannequins or dolls, but you know they're people. It's hard to comprehend though, that they have breathed, smiled and laughed, that their hearts have been beating. They have entire lives behind of them, all of them. No one ever mentions it, I don't think they even think about it. There are so many of them, and they all have memories and experiences behind them. And then they're just gone.

Another one of the new recruits are gone. They don't survive long, the new ones. Jimmy says he knew him. I can't remember what he said he was called. Something beginning with a B.

Sergeant Kent is recovering well. He is incredibly talkative, it's almost difficult to be around him at times. But I don't have to do much talking, he takes care of all that himself. I know his entire life story now, and I only ever met him two days ago. He doesn't want to stay in his bed and take it easy, he wants to get up and walk around and do things. Not that I blame him, I would go mad too if I had to be in bed for that long without anything to do. But he has been shot in the leg and I have to tell him to lie down.

They don't know when they can get him away to a real hospital, but he has said that he doesn't mind staying. Partly because Jimmy is here, partly because I am. That was a strange thing to hear, that someone is happy to have me around. That doesn't happen often. But then again, he doesn't know. If he knew he couldn't get away from here and me fast enough, and he would probably shoot Jimmy in the leg too to be able to take him with him.

Jimmy participated in an attack on the Germans today. My heart was in my throat the entire time and I swear I thought my heart would shoot out from my chest, that's how fast it was beating. I don't know the bloke, not really, but still I was terrified for him. If he died, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I have spoken to plenty of blokes out here, and then they have died and I have just shrugged my shoulders because it happens and I'm getting used to it. But not Jimmy, it's not the same with him. We are real friends, the two of us. He can't die.

It was difficult to be with his father when he was out there. We both knew it, we both knew what could happen. But none of us said anything about it, we danced around the subject, avoided it entirely. But we stared at each other and both thought the same thing. If Jimmy had died, Sergeant Kent would not recover at all. He would wither away and die on the spot.

Sometimes I wish I had a father like that. Mine wouldn't die if I did, he doesn't love me like that. He never did, not even before he knew. If he had then he wouldn't have been like that with me, wouldn't have hit me in that way or called me all those things. I have no memories of him speaking, only shouting. I would love a father like Sergeant Kent, or a mother that isn't lying around in some coffin somewhere but is above ground and cooks me sauce that tastes great but doesn't go very well with corned beef and bread.

Jimmy didn't die and was not wounded. He is alright, if a bit shaken up. It takes a while when you get back from there, for you to realize that you are back and that someone isn't firing at you, that you are as safe as you can be right now and that you probably – but not certainly, never certainly – won't get hit by a bullet this second. He didn't speak much, he was a bit jumpy and drifted off sometimes.

I suppose he saw some things too. It's still hard for him, being new and all. No one ever talks about it, but they are killing real, actual people out there. They end lives. It must be difficult, especially for someone as good as Jimmy Kent. But I wouldn't know, I'm only a medic.

I think he will get used to it. It's strange, to think that someone can get used to killing people. But I suppose he has to, they have to. People can be good at adapting when it's needed to survive. But some day it's not going to be as hard, and the next even less, and then it will continue until it's not difficult at all.

I didn't tell Jimmy this. I don't think he needs to be reminded of what he has done. I only squeezed his shoulder in support. I did it a bit longer than necessary, I'll admit that, but it was more to check. Just making sure. He didn't react, but he is in a state right now. I won't make anything of it, won't get my hopes up.

That bloke who has slept for a few days woke up. He seemed perfectly fine at first and I was a bit surprised and taken aback, but then he only got weaker. He didn't say much, but I kept circling back to him. He was all yellow, his vains were too visible and he was as thin as a stick, bones sticking out and everything. By night his eyes were barely open, his heart barely breathing and his breathing was almost undetectable. I've seen a lot of people die now, I knew it wasn't long.

I stayed up with him almost all night. I sat quietly by his bed, everyone was asleep apart from someone who was still screaming. I didn't catch his name, but at one point he asked me for some water and I brought him some. I came back and he was gone, staring out into the distance. He didn't look dead, just frozen.

I closed his eyelids and went straight to bed without even bothering with the smell. That's why I'm writing this in the morning. But I'm off. Another day lies ahead of me. Loads of fun awaits!

 


	5. May 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An entire generation of men, lost. Destroyed in the war. Not wounded, but destroyed."

It has happened. You know how you get used to things? How when something is new you always notice it, but then that sort of fades? It becomes standard, routine, normal. And all of a sudden you don't notice it any more. It's just sort of _there._ That's what has happened.

It's the smell. It's gone. I was just going on about my business, living my life, smoking a cigarette. And suddenly, I knew. It was gone. I hadn't noticed when it first disappeared. Imagine that! Here I have been going on about it for weeks on end, pulling out my hair because it bothers me so much. I couldn't think about anything else. Then I don't even notice when it's not there anymore.

Of course, it is still there. Somewhere that thing, whatever it is, is still stinking. That smell is still in the air. But I cannot feel it anymore, I do not notice it. I have gotten so used to it, now it's just there.

I thought I would be happy, you know? But it's strange. I hated that smell, I was unable to sleep with that smell, food tasted bad because of that smell, I could not think because of that smell. I wrote in my diary about that smell! I _hated_ it. I wanted it gone, I searched for hours and hours and _hours._ I looked through every part of the room, every corner, every bed, every bag (oh, some of the things I have found! Absolutely disgusting they are, these lads, and I'm supposed to be the immoral one). If I had learned that someone was keeping that something somewhere I would have shot him on the spot. I would have shot Sergeant Kent, who I risked my own life to save. Hell, I would have shot _Jimmy!_ I hated the smell and I wanted it gone, I honestly thought I would be happy.

Except, it isn't really gone. _It's still there._ I have just gotten used to it. I thought that would be good enough, but it appears as though it is not. Contrary me. Why do I have to be so complicated? Why can't I just be happy I don't feel the smell anymore and leave it at that? Because I can't. It got me thinking, it got me thinking a lot. About what people can get used to if they are forced to. Not only smells, but everything. Seeing people die, killing people, war. We can get used to that sort of things. Maybe I'm overthinking it, but it scares me. To what extinct can we get used to things? What horrible things can we do to each other, just because we have gotten used to them? Deep down we are nothing but animals. We can get used to everything, we can do anything.

And should we have to get used to things like these? Should we be forced to get used to seeing men die, killing people, war? No, we should not. I do not think we should. They are ruining us out here, they are destroying us. We are getting used to it, they are changing us. An entire generation of men, lost. Destroyed in the war. Not wounded, but destroyed. Never the same.

It's happened to me now. I got used to the smell. But I will get used to all the rest of it too. It's too late, I am a lost cause. I'm not myself anymore, I'm someone else now. I'm changed. I'm ruined. And I will never be the same again.

What a bloody awful smell. It makes me think things like that when it isn't even here anymore, when it's gone. What a bloody awful smell.

 

Jimmy's father is sick. That was what I meant to tell you, before I got caught up with the smell again. He was healing up nicely, he was fine. It came very suddenly and his condition detoriated quickly.

His wound has been infected, it's very bad. Doctors say he doesn't have much longer left, and I can see in his eyes that he knows it. He doesn't mention it. He tries to talk like he used to, but his voice is weaker and it's hard for him. He is very tired, but he doesn't want to sleep.

I think he is trying to convince himself that he is well and that there is nothing wrong. I don't blame him. I wonder what it's like, it must be awful. To know that you are dying and there is nothing you can do to stop it. To know that everything is just ending. I would be scared, I think he is too. Of what is on the other side, of what awaits us there.

No one has told Jimmy yet. He knows that he is ill, he has seen it. There is no way to hide it. But Jimmy thinks everything will be fine, that ”he'll be dandy”. I just nodded, I don't have the heart to tell him. I have done a lot of bad things in my days, I know I have and I don't pretend that I haven't. But there is something about that. It's too much, even for me. So I nodded. His voice was unnaturally high and he was talking really fast as if he couldn't stop. I know he's worried and that he's only trying to convince himself. I just nodded.

Jimmy said that his father will be fine when we get him away to a hospital. Maybe he would be, but he is never getting to any hospital. We are stuck up here, we are never getting him away. They send away the soldiers with actual chances of recovering before they get to the ones that are dying. Sergeant Kent's chances of recovering are very small. He is not getting to a hospital. Here there is nothing we can do for him.

It's a shame. He was a nice man and I liked him. We waste a lot of good men out here. But as I said; I'm getting used to it.

 


	6. May 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't lie to Jimmy Kent."

Sergeant Kent is really bad. He's yellow, tired and can barely see or hear. His eyes are sort of sinking into his head, as if they're disappearing, as if they don't want part of it anymore. I wish I could do that too. Not inside Sergeant Kent, I meant- why do I even explain myself to you?

Sometimes you almost feel like a person. The only person I have ever really liked and never been afraid around, not ever. The only one I can completely be myself with. Not even Philip compares to you. But you are not a person.

I think Sergeant Kent is coming to terms with it. I wouldn't go as far as to suggest that he accepts it, because I don't think anyone can ever accept their own demise, but I think he is realizing that there is nothing to be done and that his time is almost out. That there is nothing left for us to do. He appears to be terribly shaken up by it, of course. He just stares into the wall and looks horrified. That's how people look when they are dying. They are not stoic, proud or accepting, their backs are not straight and their heads are not high. They are scared, they are horrified. There are tears in their eyes and they stare at the wall. There is nothing stoic or proud about it. They shit in their pants, pee themselves and cry out for their mothers.

Sergeant Kent has not yet cried out for his mother, but he has cried out for me. He called my name, ”Barrow!” in the weak, hoarse voice that I know it hurts to use. I came to his bedside with my heart up my throat but a smile on my face, because I have not yet told him that he is about to die and I still pretend that I don't know. I said ”is there anything you want, Sergeant Kent?” and thought _he is not supposed to die yet, someone stop this._ He shook his head.

”I don't feel too well”, he said.

I could feel my mouth twitching, but I forced it to keep smiling. I can't scare him, not now. So I just asked him if he wanted a cup of water or something to eat, which I suggested he would do as I assured him that it would make him feel better. He shook his head again. That's how I knew he was bad, because he would never substitute words with a motion. When Sergeant Kent can talk (and sometimes when he can't) he _will_ talk. I was silent for a bit, assuming that he enjoyed the company if nothing else.

”Isn't this a way to go?” he said eventually, and instead of laughing he coughed. ”Shot in the leg I was, been in the trenches a year. I fought the Boers too, y'know. The entire war, I was down there for years. Didn't get wounded once.”

He didn't look at me as he spoke, and his hands were moving slightly but did not lift from the bed.

”Not even the flesh wound in my leg's taking me out, no, it's a bloody infection”, he continued with an ironic smile on his face and a little shaking of his head. ”What a way to go.”

I wanted to tell him that it doesn't make him less of a man, that it doesn't make him less of a soldier, that it doesn't mean he's weak. That infections are very deadly and that more soldiers die from them than from their wounds. But I knew he wouldn't listen so I didn't say a word.

”I left for Africa when Jimmy was barely one”, he said. ”Came back when he was four. He wasn't a baby anymore. He didn't recognize me. I had missed all the important things.”

His face twisted into a grimace for half a second and I thought he would cry. I didn't want to see that, I couldn't see that, I almost panicked. But he didn't cry.

”Now I'll miss all the rest”, he whispered more to himself than to me.

Of course I could see in his eyes how hard that must be, but I can never actually understand it. I don't want to either.

I couldn't tell him that it wasn't true, because it is and that would be a lie. Just to say something I asked him again if he wanted some water, and again he shook his head. I could try to force him, because he does need to drink. But what good would it do? He hasn't got much long left either way.

Jimmy knows it too now. We were smoking outside the field hospital this evening, and he just asked me straight out.

”How long does he have left?”

I didn't know whether to tell him or not. But he looked at me, so desperate and so in need of an answer, so I had to.

”The doctor says he could last several weeks.”

It was meant to be assuring, but it was also exactly what he had said. It has slowed down now, it might take a while. But Jimmy did not find it reassuring. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his foot.

”Bloody hell”, he muttered. ”Can't they see he's suffering?”

I took another puff, trying to make my cigarette last as long as possible. Jimmy stared at the one he had just ruined, perhaps changing his mind. He could easily have taken a few more puffs of that, and none of us have very many.

”I can't stand to see him like that, Thomas”, he said.

His voice almost broke. He's the only one I allow to call me Thomas.

”He's in so much pain.”

He looked at me, his eyes were wet and his cheeks were red. I didn't know what to do to comfort him, didn't know what to say. Because it was true, all that he said, and I can't lie to Jimmy Kent.

”He's in so much pain”, he repeated, as if it would remove the meaning of the words.

He started crying silently, tears escaping his eyes. I stood there leaned against the wall and just watched him, as he repeated ”several weeks” out loud, again and again.

Jimmy, in the trenches. Jimmy, with the dying father. Jimmy, with the friend who's desperately in love with him.

I wish I could help. I feel bad for him. He is about to see his father wither away and die, slowly, in front of him, without being able to help him. I can't even imagine what that does to a man.

 


	7. May 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Because if Jimmy thinks it is time for something, whatever it is, then it is time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while...
> 
> The big question; should I continue writing this? Is anyone reading it?

 I didn't know what he meant first, I will admit that. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, I didn't understand it.

”I think it's time, Thomas”, he said. ”It ought to be time, doesn't it?”

 _Time for what?_ I thought. I wanted to ask him too, because I had no idea what was going on inside his head. He looked decided, he looked certain. As if about to go into battle. But it was night, and there would be no battle until morning. And he has never looked like that before. I have never seen anyone look like that before.

I couldn't ask. I found myself unable to ask. I thought he would think me a fool, so I couldn't ask. I nodded. Because if Jimmy thinks it is time for something, whatever it is, then it is time.

He didn't look at me, but I think he could still see or sense that I nodded, because he knew I was agreeing.

”He's in so much pain”, he said, and then he looked up at me. ”He's suffering.”

Then I knew what he meant, I knew what it was time for. I agreed at the same time as I didn't. I didn't know what to think of it, to be honest. I couldn't figure out my own feelings, all thoughts kept coming at once and they were so many that it all just disappeared and turned blank.

”They're not gonna save him”, Jimmy said. ”He's just gonna suffer for several weeks until he dies.”

He looked at me as if to beg for me to say something, to support him, to assure him that it wasn't so, to do anything, to just react. I nodded again, because it was true.

He repeated it again, that it was time. I said yes, it was the only word I could think to say.

And he asked me if I would help him. I said yes. It wasn't an answer or a reply, just a yes. A statement. Yes, I would help him. I didn't want to, definitely not. But I would help Jimmy with anything, absolutely anything. And I did.

We put out our cigarettes. I didn't want to, I don't have many and that one I could have puffed on for a little while longer. But Jimmy said it was time, so it was time.

Everyone was unconscious or asleep in the field hospital, except for Jack. Jack was knocked unconscious by a grenade and landed face first in a puddle of mud, couldn't breathe and didn't get enough oxygen to his brain. It was too late when someone dragged him out of there. He's awake, but he's never going to recover. He doesn't talk, just stares ahead of him without seeing a thing. I don't know how much he notices, how aware he is. We have written letters to his family explaining his condition, trying to arrange for get him sent home. No one has replied. They don't want to take him on anymore, no one does. He signed up to serve the country, but now he's a burden. He wanted to protect his family and now they won't acknowledge him.

Jack stared straight ahead, and I stared at him. I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he judges us if he does.

Jimmy took a pillow.

”Is this the best way?” he asked me, as if he was talking about cooking, or cleaning, or anything else that it most definitely wasn't.

I nodded because the words were stuck in my throat. It would have been easier for Jimmy – and for me – if I had given Sergeant Kent too much of some drug. It wouldn't be too difficult, when he's in that state. But they would notice that it had gone missing and I would take the blame for it to protect Jimmy. He would have to do it that way.

He nodded, and then he did it. He put the pillow over his father's face, lightly at first, and hesitated a bit. But then he just pressed. He pushed it down on his face and just pressed, pressed, _pressed,_ as if he was trying to force it through his head.

It was his father. His father, the mad who had taken care of him for his entire life, who had loved him unconditionally for just as long. His blood, his _father._

I thought he would cry, I thought that would be rather appropiate. But then again, I don't know what's appropiate in those sort of situations. No one does. Jimmy didn't cry. All emotions were completely gone from his face. I suppose that was what he needed to do to be able to do it.

It became too difficult to look at him, so I looked at Jack, staring out into the void. I wished he didn't see it, and I wished his parents would come around and take care of him. I wondered what he saw, if it was a better place than this.

What I saw when I turned around was Jimmy, carefully placing the pillow back where it belonged.

”I think it's over”, he said.

I looked at Sergeant Kent in the bed. He still looked alive, that was the strange thing, but I knew it was over without even going over to check. I wouldn't be able to do that, so I just said, ”It is.” Jimmy nodded and didn't look like someone who had just killed his own father.

I thought I was suffocating in there and had to rush out. I was still catching my breath there, even though the air was fresher and easier to breathe. He came out a little later and forced out a small smile. He asked me if I was okay and I said I was, I asked him back and he replied the same thing. I wasn't okay and he wasn't supposed to be.

”Goodnight, Thomas”, he said, as he walked away from there.

My hands are shaking as I write this. I don't think I'll ever forget the moment his smile faded away before he turned around, and I most certainly will never be able to unsee what I saw in Jack's eyes.

It was nothing, there was nothing in them. He was gone.

 


	8. June 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish I could tell someone. I wish I could tell him."

I miss Jimmy. He doesn't talk to me any more, and I miss him.

I think I remind him of what we did that night, and I think he can't deal with that, so he has to avoid me. I understand that, it's nothing personal, nothing against me, but still. Whenever I see him around – which isn't often – he disappears within seconds. He says ”Good morning”, ”Good day” and ”Good evening” sometimes, but never more than that. He is always busy now, and I miss him.

Yesterday something strange happened. I threw a fit. I was going to the linen room to get some covers (that's what I've been reduced to, a medic who cleans and changes the sheets all these big, brave soldiers are shitting on) and somewhere along the way, things started to get blurry. The noises were muffled and the world was moving slowly, as in slow motion, and I felt almost like I was walking underwater. So I got to the linen room, thinking I'm getting sick, thinking I must've eaten something bad (everything here is bad, of course I have), reached up for the covers on the top shelf, on my tiptoes now; and I started to cry.

I wasn't even quiet, I practically screamed. I was shaking and the tears were streaming down my face, and I just took the covers and closed my arms around them, waiting for it to stop. But it didn't stop. I stood there for several minutes, just crying senselessly with the covers in my arms, and it didn't stop. I wasn't in control of it either, I had lost control completely. I'm broken. I'm broken and I can't be fixed.

Eventually I got out of there, still crying, and handed the covers to someone else, I couldn't see who through the tears. I must have looked positively pathetic and I would have been so ashamed and embarrassed if I had been at my senses, but now I just walked out of the hospital and past all the soldiers through the trench. The strange thing is that no one looked at me twice. I'm not the first one to bite it like this. I wasn't an unusual sight.

I closed myself up in the barrack and continued crying in my bed. When I woke up I had finally stopped. Still can't tell why I ever started, because I thought I was doing fine. I no longer believe I am doing fine.

I wanted Jimmy. I wanted to talk to him about it, I wanted him to comfort me, pat me on the head and make it all right again. But god knows where Jimmy is right now. The officers have him running all these stupid errands (he told me before _that night_ that they send him to deliver messages between them because they are too lazy to just leave their dugouts and actually go meet and talk to each other) and I couldn't find him anywhere, even though I looked.

I sat with Jack instead. I read letters for him. They're not his letters, because no one ever writes him anything. No, just some I found lying around, adressed to men who are dead now. I think it's rather horrible, all these words that people have put down on paper and sent away, to no one. Someone should read them, shouldn't they?

But the thing is; people write about the most stupid things. None of all that actually matters, and I hate that they can't just see that. They think _they_ have problems, God, I wish I could tell them about _my_ day. I might start crying again if I have to read about more pretty girls or suspected pregnancies (Sharon, your son is dead, I do not think he cares if that charletan of a neighour you have has gotten herself knocked up). I would like to see them trying to survive out here. Civilians. I hate them now. I hate them more than I hate the Germans.

I think Jack agrees with me, though obviously I can't tell. I wonder if he understood a word I read him today. It doesn't seem likely. I wonder even more what he would think if he did, what sort of person he is. Would he hate it, or would he laugh at it?

Jimmy would laugh. His laugh is wonderful.

He was the only thing worth waking up for out here, the only good part of my day. That blond, curly hair of his was like actual sunshine and could brighten up even the darkest room and the gloomiest mood, and _I miss him._ Now he looks at me in this strange way, with these strange eyes that I don't recognize, and he doesn't want anything to do with me.

He's always busy nowadays. And I'm in love with him.

I can't pretend that I'm not any more. Do you mind, diary? I know a whole world of people that would, but I can't see what the problem is. Jimmy Kent is the most wonderful person in the world, and I would be wrong not to be in love with him. Then there would be a problem with me. This way, I don't see why there is.

I wish I could tell someone. I wish I could tell _him._ But I can't tell him anything right now. All I can do is write it down in this bloody diary, in this bloody barrack, with this bloody candle, wearing these bloody clothes. If I could be anyone else in the world, if even for a mere second; I would sell my own soul. I would do it to not have to be here and now.

And if I could choose, I would choose to be whoever gets to be next to Jimmy right now.

It's funny. I don't think I've ever actually been in love before. Not like this, anyway.

I know horrible things now, diary, and the most horrible thing I know, is that this is how it is. This is how it is to be in love. And this is how it is to not be loved back.

 


	9. June 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That is what I need to survive for. That is what I need to get home for."

Jimmy is returned to me, at least for a little while. Yesterday I found him outside my barrack, smiling broadly and seemingly waiting for _me._ It was a strange feeling, to know that he had been standing there for God knows how long because he wanted to see me, and that my arrival could make him that happy. That it was me, that maybe he feels the same way as I.

He said it had been too long and apologized for being so busy, but I was not angry and did not need to forgive him. He is back, for the moment, and that is all that matters. We talked about what he had been up to, what I had been doing, what is going on with this bloody war and why nothing is happening, and everything felt just like before. We never even thought to mention his father or what happened. I saw in his eyes that he thought about it, at least I think I did, but I knew he didn't want me to mention it. So we pretended that it had never happened, that Sergeant Kent is just out somewhere and doesn't need to be talked about because why would we say anything when we can talk directly to him in just a few hours?

And then he said that he is going away. He is going back. He is doing some work back in England, what I don't know, what he doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. The main thing is, he is leaving. He will be away from here, free from the trenches, out of danger.

I find, oddly, that I can't be sad this time. I know I will miss him, but I prefer that. I prefer that over having to fear that I might lose him for real. It would be selfish of me to want him to stay here. I am only happy that he has gotten out, I am so happy that he might get to be normal one day.

We met again tonight, I think he must have gotten ahold of alcohol somehow, because he was so awfully cheerful. No one is that cheerful out here. He gave some of his food and offered me a cigarette, then he smiled and I forgot where I was for a second. That was nice.

He asked me about Daisy and if I will ask her to marry me when I get back. He still talks as if he's completely certain that we will, and I find that strange. I don't feel very sure any more. I understand now that it feels this way for him, but for me and the rest of us? We will all still be out here, and lord knows when we will be sent back. More than ever I wanted to be home, away from here, just anywhere else. More than ever my heart felt pierced by a bullet, and I want to be in England, I want to be with Jimmy, I _don't want to be here._ But I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't do anything but say that maybe someday, I can see myself living in a little cottage with the person I love and some orchids in the window. I didn't say that it's him and not Daisy who is that person.

”That sounds nice”, Jimmy said. ”I would like that.”

He thinks it sounds nice. He would like that. I think, diary, that he knows. I think, oh God, that he might just have admitted that he feels just like me. And I just sat there with my hammering heart and a smile like a fool and couldn't ask, but I don't think I had to. I think the look in his eyes and that small smile, was enough.

We laughed about a letter his mother had soaked in perfume and sent him, and that the others had mistaken for a letter from a girl. He said he thinks she's doing all right, and I was glad. I wasn't angry that she's doing all right and drenching letters in perfume when her husband is dead and her son is at war, I was just glad. I used to be angry all the time, at everything. But I realize now how pointless it is to be angry, and how it doesn't matter at all. It's tiring too, and I don't have enough energy for it.

We have just a few days now, precious days, days that will pass too fast. I think of how miserable I was without Jimmy, and I wonder how on earth I will survive going through all that again, when he won't even be near enough to find when I want to, but on the other side of the canal. And I convince myself that I want this for him, I want this for me. I tell myself that he, the soldier with the biggest risk of dying, needs to get home, and one day I will follow and we can have that cottage with the orchids. I can see him outside in our garden with a cup of coffee in his hand, and I come up from behind him with my own and wrap my arms around him and we just stand there and look at whatever is in front of our cottage, a lake maybe, a field, woods.

That is what I need to survive for. That is what I need to get home for. It feels good to know now, to have such an exact goal. Sometimes it's even hard to imagine that I won't, that there is another alternative. Of course I will get back to England. And because Jimmy is going to leave now, he will be waiting for me when I do. He will be standing by the docks when my ship arrives, and I will stand by the railing and watch him look up at me and laugh.

Jimmy has such a wonderful laugh. When he laughs, it's as if nothing has changed, as if the world isn't falling apart, as if there is no chance he will die the next day. When he laughs like that I doubt that we have all changed and that we are all ruined and destroyed. Jimmy isn't. Maybe I'm not either, maybe I'll come back one day and laugh just like Jimmy again. I looked at him, and I knew that there's still good left in the world.

Or maybe he was just drunk.

 


	10. July 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel as if I'm in free fall. The ground is just coming up at me, faster, faster, faster, and I'm falling.   
> And I think, diary, that I will be landing soon."

We have said goodbye now. He came rushing to me a few days ago when I was in the middle of the field hospital, yelling over the doctors' shushing that he had been looking for me everywhere, that he was already leaving.

My heart beat in a way that I have never known it to, I said I would not miss him, I said I want this for him, but diary, I think I might have lied to you.

I started planning a speech in my head, what to say next, as he stared at me with wild eyes. In those moments I was convinced that his heart was in perfect synch with mine, and that had mine stopped we would both have dropped down dead to the floor. But we did not. Because I do not want him dead, and have no control of my heart either way.

And as I was carefully planning a farewell that wouldn't sound strange to any of the many people around us who would hear, Jimmy flung himself at me. He wrapped his arms around me and clung to me, pushing his face against my chest. I sort of lifted my arms and held them out confusedly, because I didn't know what to do with them.

I have never touched a man like this in front of people, never loved a man like this in public. And I was shocked, diary, _stunned,_ to find that no one in the room even seemed to look at us twice. I realized slowly that for them – and then also for us – there are worse things in the world than people like me. (For example, one of them just had a leg cut off.)

So with no more hesitation I hugged him back, held my Jimmy tight for the last time in what might be a while. I don't know how long we stood there. He just breathed against me and I thought he might say something, but he didn't. Just breathed. I wondered why he seemed so afraid, why he isn't happy to be leaving, before I realized that maybe he is just as afraid of being without me as I am of losing him, and that he doesn't want to leave me at all.

But eventually he had to. Reluctantly I let go of him as he eased his grip around me, because now there were people outside calling his name and I wanted to yell at him that if he missed this chance I would by _God_ make him regret it. Which I did not have to do, because he probably sensed this himself.

He took a step back, a deep breath, and looked up at me. So beautiful is my Jimmy that I almost changed my mind, almost begged him to stay, to transfer, to do anything, just to stay here with me and keep me company at night when I need to save the light and have run out of cigarettes, to die here with me in this godforsaken place instead of getting out and having to fight the whole world to be together. Because I am not dillusional, diary, and I know that that is what awaits us if we attempt this. But even when I know the alternative, I cannot let my Jimmy die. I must let him go, wait for me in England and make us our own place of the world. And then we can fight. Because that is what I want. To _live,_ with him.

”Thomas”, he said.

”Jimmy”, I replied.

What else could we have said?

He tipped his hat for me with a silly grin playing at the edges of his mouth, and I couldn't tell if he was trying to make the situation better or hide that he actually was relieved and happy.

”Till the next time”, he said.

He turned on his heel and sauntered out the room as if there hadn't been tears in his eyes just a minute earlier. And there I stood, alone in this hospital, in this country, in this war.

But, the next time. Diary, _the next time._

 

The thing is, I think they know. Well, I _know_ that Carmichael knows. Or maybe I don't at all. Maybe I just imagine the way he looked at me today, squinting and tightening his lips. Perhaps he wasn't even looking at me, just thinking about something else and didn't even know that I was there and our eyes met so it felt as if he was staring right into my soul.

Carmichael is, what exactly is Carmichael? He is a corporal, that I know, but I do not believe I have ever seen him do any work. He is young and came last year, fresh from training. Apparently he thinks himself very important, at least that is the impression I have gotten from seeing him walk around the trenches smirking and puffing out his chest.

I spoke to him once, when I picked up some lad who had been shot right next to him. Carmichael didn't seem so big and confident then, he was shaking almost as badly as me and asked me over and over how this man was.

”He'll be all right”, I said.

Carmichael nodded gratefully at me, as if that was all my doing. And this bloke – his bloody brain was running out from his ear. But we have been told to lie this way, and Carmichael seemed to consider it a solvable problem.

That's the only time I have ever interacted with him, but now I have gotten it into my head that he was there when I said goodbye to Jimmy. I have become convinced that another friend of his had gotten wounded and he had showed up with a pack of cigarettes to comfort him, and that he hadn't left when Jimmy came storming in with his glorious golden curls in a mess. And I fear that he saw all of it, and is the only one who understood what it really was about.

I'm trying to figure out what trouble he could get me into, what it even matters that he can possibly know about me, and even though I can't think of anything, I feel as if I'm in free fall. The ground is just coming up at me, faster, faster, faster, and I'm falling.

And I think, diary, that I will be landing soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to tell you, guys, that your comments mean the WORLD to me and are literally the only reason I keep writing this. I feel like I've been going at it for ages without getting anywhere and I just want to move on, kinda, but as long as there are people reading this I have to continue it and wrap it all up the way I had planned. And if that's the case, then boy, we're nowhere near the end. So if you're reading, don't hesitate to keep on showing your love and appreciation! Really, you don't even understand how much I love your comments, and YOU!


	11. July 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Last night we all thought we would die, but I think I was the only one who did."

I am disgusting. I am an unloveable, appalling, disgusting freak. I look at myself in the mirror, and I see a stranger. For so long there has been me in there, always changing but always the same, but now – now it's someone else. I don't know him. I don't like him.

Last night we were bombed. We all hid in the bunker, we who are fighting for the people at home. We all shook, the brave soldiers they put all their faith in. We all thought we would die, and I think we were all relieved.

The world was shaking, the roof was falling down on us in chunks. There were two many of us in there, and we sat on every surface available, singing with weak, shaking voices and drinking from flasks not even the officers wanted to deny us. There was such a sense of Last over it all, the whole scene, in a way that is completely impossible to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it. Last, last, last. I can see it when I close my eyes, all the men in the uniforms and helmets, on long lines of chairs and on the table, all sitting hunched forward, some with their hands over their ears. Some tried to defy the noise with harmonicas and singing, but you could only hear the man next to you.

Stevens was next to me. He's 18 years old and trying to grow a moustache. He was singing ”Bombed last night”, or rather whispering the words.

 

_Bombed last night_

_And bombed the night before_

_Going to get bombed tonight_

_If we never get bombed any more_

 

I was sitting on the ground, cold and wet dirt. I leaned against the wall and felt the vibrations of another shell falling over us, knowing any one could be the last, and closed my eyes. Last, last, last. I thought about the last cigarette I had smoked, the last drink I had had, the last film I had seen, the last time I met Jimmy. Last, last, last.

 

_They're over us, they're over us_

_One shell hole for just the four of us_

_Thank your lucky star there are no more of us_

_'Cause one of us can fill it all alone_

 

The thing is, Stevens is a pretty good singer, and I was content with having this be the last song I would ever heard. Do you know how it is to be aware that everything is a last? It's an overwhelming knowledge, diary, I would know.

The second verse of the song is about being gassed, and suddenly I had to leave. I stood up and walked over the legs of the nation's pride, of which someone was now crying. I felt like a machine at this point, a machine with the only purpose of getting to the washroom. I was mostly unaware of my surroundings, because I did no longer wish to be where or who I was. So I didn't notice, I swear, I didn't notice that he was following me.

The washroom was small and there was no lock on the door. I was still figuring out what I had intended to do in there, what I had hoped to escape, when I heard the door open behind me. I turned around as he stepped in, and closed it again.

”Scream and I'll shoot”, Carmichael said. ”Speak and I'll shoot.”

I didn't understand what was happening, but it sounded reasonable enough, so even though I took a step back I didn't make a sound. I realise now that if I had, maybe I would have found a way out of this. Maybe I would have been able to excuse it and not hate myself. But I will never know that.

The only explanation I have is that he had his gun out. He pointed it at me as he came towards me, when he pushed me against the wall, when he told me to get down on my knees. So I did. And he pressed it to my head when he opened up his trousers and forced himself into my mouth.

I've had the taste of him left ever since. I've had the feeling of his thrusting and the gun to my head at the back of my mind since it happened. And I was choking and thought I would throw up, and he just thrusted faster and harder. I thought about how this was something I had done before, something I had _enjoyed_ doing, and in all possible ways it was incomprehensible and disgusting. I was afraid that it would always be now, that I would never enjoy it again, that he would have taken it from me.

It was over very fast, and I even swallowed without him having to tell me. And then he just zipped up his pants and left me on the floor. As soon as the door closed again I fell apart altogether and started crying hysterically.

I know he wouldn't have done this to anyone else. He wouldn't have done this to anyone who hasn't done it before, he wouldn't have done this to anyone who doesn't like to do it, he wouldn't have done this to anyone who has actually wanted to do it, who has longed for that kind of touch for years. But now I am all those things, and I never even said no. I didn't scream, I didn't fight him, I didn't try to bite his bloody dick off. And why? Because, diary, this is who I am.

I know that after this I don't deserve Jimmy, after this he will not love me (if he ever did), after this he _shouldn't_ love me. Jimmy, lovely Jimmy, should never be with someone who has been with a man like Carmichael. Jimmy should never be with someone who has done what I have. Jimmy should never be with me.

Am I making sense? I don't know any more, I can't think any more. Not even I understand all this. All I know is that I'm disgusting and pathetic, and last night I did something unspeakable.

Last night we all thought we would die, but I think I was the only one who did.

I stayed on the washroom floor until the bombing had stopped, and then for another hour until the room outside was quiet and the bunker was empty. Then I managed to get myself up and walk outside. The sun was rising and beyond the horizon there were horses screaming in pain. I hoped some brave bastard would be merciful enough to venture out and shoot them. Jimmy would have.

I didn't. I just went to the little dugout I acquired recently and curled myself up into a weeping ball under my thin blanket. And it wasn't in this mattress, it was in the old one in the barrack, but I _swear_ I felt the smell again.

I screamed into my pillow, and outside a voice I didn't know, a soldier out on guard, said, ”Cheer up, mate”. I wonder how many other crying dugouts he passed last night. The night that was supposed to be my last.

I don't even know if I want to go home any more. I think maybe I might prefer to just, _not_ _._

Just _not_ _._

 


End file.
